JUNO


    SEPTEMBER 1986


    MINDEN, LA


    My palms are raw and sore from scrubbing my clothes in the large pail of soapy water. I manage to hitch up a clothesline for them to dry. My eyes are puffy. I am going to lose this place in matter of months. Two long months of job hunting and not a single reply. I’ve used all the spare change I’ve brought with me at the pay phone. I go in stores, out of stores. I’ve been turned away so many times that I’ve lost count. Salt water spills down my cheeks. My head throbs from a lack of sleep.


    I am going to be homeless.


    I can’t put a roof over my baby’s head. Once the state finds out, they will take my child away from me, and I will never see them again. They will be placed in the foster care system, and when they turn eighteen they will want nothing to do with me because they think I’ve abandoned them. And then I will have no family, no one—


    A lump rises in my throat.


    My fingers tighten around the shirt I am ringing out with my hands. I walk barefoot across the yard and attach it to the clothesline, which sways in the wind. The smell of laundry detergent fills my nose. I dump out the soapy water on the side of the porch. I don’t usually get emotional easy. It’s these damn hormones that got me all choked up. I’ve been crying for days like a maniac over pointless, worthless stuff. Yesterday, I was sobbing because I was craving peanut butter crackers and pickles.


    Breathe, I remind myself. You’ve got time. Try again tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. You just gotta improve upon your interviewing skills. Make a good first impression. People won’t know what you don’t tell them. You got to stay focused.


    I exhale, easing the pressure in my chest. Once I place the pail back on the porch, I enter the kitchen. Since I’m too nauseated to leave the house and try my luck at the job search anyway, I decide a little bit of cleaning will keep my mind off things and open the windows to let the place air out. I pick up my wilted straw broom and start sweeping the floor, wiping my snotty nose with the back of my stained sleeve. I’ve made good progress, and I push aside a table to get at a stubborn cobweb before something catches my eye.


    Something white.


    A cream colored envelope is tucked between the two loose floorboards. Once I set down the broom, I pick it up. It’s a very thick wad of cash. And another. I glance around me for a moment, before peeling back the flap with my thumb. I silently count out the bills, which ends up totaling over four grand. I see a note at the very bottom.


    Just to get you started,


    Tom Brunswick.


    The writing is boxy, in all caps, scrawled out in dark blue ink. It seems a bit familiar to me, but I don’t know why. I rub my eyes, wondering how it got stuck into the floor. Maybe the wind knocked it over. Maybe Tom stopped by, realized that I wasn’t home, and dropped this off. Why he didn’t he just ask if we could take a trip to the bank is beyond me.


    I reckon he’s just old fashioned. He seems like the type of guy to store his birth certificate and social security card underneath his mattress.


    When I swallow, I wince. My throat hurts; I must be coming down with a cold. I wearily sit down on the wooden stool and cough. I need to return the money to him and Georgia, since I can’t take this. It’s far too much, and they have already done enough for me. It’s worse that their daughter knows I stole from her father. Now she’ll think that I’m scamming them out of more money too, and I don’t want her to find out where I live.


    I fold the wrinkled bills back in the envelope and slip it into its hiding place, admiring how Tom has such a knack for detail. As soon as I am able to reach the bus, I’m heading back to the Brunswick home to get this ridiculous heap of cash off my hands. The last thing I want to be in more crippling debt. I’ve always hated owing people things, money included.


    When I finish sweeping, I reach the bottom of the stairs, still holding my broom. I stop when I see something sitting on the third step.


    It’s the notepad of the strange video game sprites I’ve seen before. Each page is completely filled with them. The graph paper is completely crumpled with the bizarre designs, like they’ve been stepped and kicked on multiple times. I can see from downstairs that the attic door is closed, the cord from the pull-out ladder dangling in the air, swinging back and forth. My mouth goes dry, and I suddenly snatch the notebook and head outside. The sky is cloudy and gray above.


    I dump it straight in the trash.


    * * * * * * * *


    I’m having a hard time sleeping at night.


    My nose is stuffy and all blocked up, and I can’t stop sneezing. I blow my nose repeatedly. During the day, the house is peaceful, with its ordinary creaks and groans. It’s not unusual for such sounds to occur. As a matter of fact, I’ve gotten used to them.


    The wind howls, shakes up the place. It does what any old house is supposed to do. But once evening falls, and the sun disappears in the horizon, is when that strange, queasy sensation settles inside of me. It’s extremely quiet. Perhaps it’s just nausea—it hasn’t completely gone away yet. I was relieved to finally install the new door, so now, I don’t have to worry about someone breaking in. But I don’t know if it is safer to be in or outside the house. It is very, very quiet at night, and my mere desk lamp doesn’t seem quite enough to keep the shadows away.


    The move-in process is very slow, but simple.


    I carry my meager belongings from my broken down car, trudging through the thick, tall grass. I nearly fold my clothes and place them on a small shelf. Since I’m not yet comfortable with sleeping upstairs, my makeshift bedroom is in the living room, nearby the old television. I use a few of my sheets as drapes to cover the windows to catch some privacy, in case someone may be poking around nearby.


    All I have are mostly canned foods and microwave dinners. The refrigerator door doesn’t even open, and I don’t want to find out what is inside of it. After several hours of unpacking, I eat out on the porch. I’m craving ginger tea for my stuffy nose, but there’s no money for a stove right now. It’s my favorite spot out of the entire house, because I am able to watch the sun go down.


    When there is just enough sun in the sky, I muster enough courage to go up the steps. I hold up my flashlight and make my way towards the smallest bedroom. I walk to the middle and spin around. I can’t help but smile. It’s completely bare, covered in dirt and cobwebs, but I can imagine shining it up, painting the walls a nice yellow color. Perhaps add some decorative wallpaper with teddy bears, a dresser to match the crib I could barely afford. And toys. Lots of toys. A fat, fluffy beanbag, perhaps, with a nice bookcase. A desk wouldn’t hurt either when they get a little older—something that my child could use to do their homework, or draw and paint pictures.


    I chuckle at the thought of tiny painted handprints against the wall. My mother would’ve thrown a fit—she couldn’t stand a messy room. As I inch closer to the small window, I can see the entire view of the front yard, covered in weeds. My hands rest against the dirty ledge. I continue to squint through the stained glass, when a creak in the hallway causes me to spin around.


    The bedroom door is open just an inch. I had closed it behind me when I came in here.


    With my right hand, I whip out my pocketknife. The blade catches in the light, and my shaking hand is glued to the handle. But when I go out in the hallway, no one is there. I check the attic and the bedrooms, and the bathroom in that room, too. Clutching my knife as tight as I can, I descend down the creaky steps, and open the front door. The yard is empty, and dried leaves had begun to collect on the porch and my dead car, barely visible in the warm evening air.


    No one is there.


    * * * * * * * *


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.I’ve went to the Brunswick home three times this week. It’s empty when I knock on their door, or peer through the window. I think they’re out of town, so I’m stuck with the money. I make sure to guard it carefully, placing back into the floorboards each time.


    There’s a water pump outside that I’ve been using to bathe with every evening, and I’ve positioned the rusted pipe above so that it falls above my head. The water itself is heavenly in this heat; it is pleasantly freezing as it travels down my hair, neck, swollen breasts, and protruding abdomen. I assume the house was built in the late thirties, early forties—probably one of the things that the real estate lady did not lie about. I depend on that tap for drinking water, too. It’s not like anyone can see me undress. No cars, if any, ever pass by on the roads, so I often hear the singing of birds and the rustling of trees.


    As I adjust to the quiet sounds of nature around me, I can’t help but remember the bustling sounds of Manhattan—the smell of exhaust in the air. Crickets whirr around me, and I can see fireflies light up in the growing dark as I wrap my wet frame in a towel and make my way back into the house.


    I know that the plumbing works sometimes—just the other day, the faucet in the kitchen sink spewed out thick brown water— but I don’t want to go upstairs or anywhere near the attic, especially after stumbling upon that video game system. Or the basement. I haven’t gone into the basement yet, and I don’t plan to soon.


    Somehow, the toilet still flushes. The first floor is the only place where I feel the most safe at. mainly, the living room and kitchen area. It’s the closest to the door—rather, there are two doors—the front door and the side door, which leads to a fenced backyard, where a rusted metal fence is eaten up by tree branches.


    It’s the spaces of darkness, such as the stairwell or the locked basement door underneath the stairs that make me freeze. I try not to go past there as much as I can. I even contemplate sleeping outside to calm my mind, but finally decide at the last minute to camp out in the living room.


    I finally unpacked all of my things from my car. Tom has promised to find a new engine for me, but I know that he’s most likely extremely busy. I have to be up early tomorrow to catch the bus into town. My job search has not been going well, but there is a waitressing job that I have an interview for—some place called Tito’s Diner. The clothes I plan to wear are neatly folded on a chair, pressed and ironed.


    My arms burn, but I sit on a stool, take a paddle brush, and rake it through my thick hair. The knots seem to have worsen over time, and once I finally get to wrestle it into some cornrows that hang down my back, I am startled to see that it is already dark outside.


    I yawn.


    It’s been a long day—a lot of rejections from employers, walking around town, going from one bus stop to another by using the map Tom has given me, and accidentally getting the printer jammed at the library because I put too much paper into the tray. I brought a soft pretzel nearby a concession stand, and fed the geese near the pond, seeing my reflection in the murky water. A car sprayed mud over me, ruining my clothes. The only news is that at least the manager appeared slightly interested in me, and that I was going to convince him that my pregnancy would in no way affect my availability. I would be able to work nights after the baby comes—I just have to find a sitter.


    Satisfied with my plans, I change into some pajamas, brush my teeth, spit the foam out into the grass and rinse my mouth with the cold, clear water from the pump. It tastes oddly sweet, refreshing, and had I known that it was located right by the house, I could’ve saved myself from all the trouble I got into the first day. But in a strange kind of way, I’m relieved to have met the Brunswicks, although I don’t want them to see this place in its unfinished form. I know that Tom would handle its appearance better than Georgia.


    The ATARI 2600 and box of cartridges sit on the broken kitchen table. They’re all quite worthless to me, since I don’t have a television to even use it. The ancient one mounted against the wall doesn’t even look functional. Probably hasn’t in years. I have an inkling to try to turn it on, but don’t. I’ve had enough distractions already; I need to get to bed. It’s midnight, and I plan to be up by five.


    As I wearily settle on the mattress, I wince with discomfort. It’s getting a bit harder to move, but I chuckle to myself when I feel my baby begin to stir. “Oh, no you don’t,” I softly say, placing a hand on my abdomen. “Not tonight. You’re going to behave yourself.”


    My stomach has grown a quite a bit.


    I can still hide it with baggy shirts and jackets, but it’s getting to a point that it’s very noticeable. My baby is asleep during the day, but kicks at night, which wakes me up. I’m only five months in, but I still read bedtime stories to my child, sometimes out loud. This helps me with my nerves, the sound of my voice filling the still house. Fairy tales, especially. I have them on audio player, and I place the headphones on my stomach.


    Tonight, I quietly sing to my child while lying on my back, with plenty of pillows and blankets to keep me warm, since the house can get very cold most evenings. To calm my nerves, I sing for myself.


    Oddly enough, I can’t help but feel as if someone is listening.


    * * * * * * * * * *


    A door upstairs creaks.


    Groggy with sleep, I sit up from the mattress with a start, feeling around for my pocketknife, which I usually keep under my pillow. It isn’t there. The only light in the living room is off. It’s plugged in the wall like before. When I look closer, I see that the bulb is shattered. What time is it? I must’ve misplaced my watch.


    The house itself pitch black.


    I can’t see anything. No matter how many times I try to turn the light back on by clicking the switch, it’s completely dead. Swinging my legs over the mattress, I wrap the blanket around myself, as it is suddenly freezing. I try to open the front door, but it is locked. There is a faint noise on the landing upstairs. I freeze for a moment, before dropping the blanket and running into the small pantry in the kitchen, beside the rusted stove.


    As quietly as I can, I shut the door.


    It smells sour in the tiny space, and to my relief, the doorknob has a tiny lock inside, which I turn. I crouch against the corner and hug my knees, breathing as quietly as I can. There’s a brown stain on the floor. Sweat gathered at the base of my neck, and I freeze, my back pressed against the peeling wall. The pantry door has shutters, thin slits of where I can make out moonlight pouring from the kitchen windows outside. My heart is pounding so bad I’m surprised it hasn’t popped out of my chest. My throat is dry.


    Where is my knife?


    There are footsteps descending down the stairs. They are quiet, but I know that they are there. They seem to stop at the bottom, where I dropped my blanket. My eyes adjust to the darkness, as I’m planning to think of a way to run out of the house and book it into town. I don’t have a telephone. I frantically fumble at the metal knob, but I see a shadow on the wall, just halfway up the stairs.


    It has stopped moving.


    Slowly, I back away, accidentally knocking over a plastic flower pot. It clatters loudly on the ground, and I flinch. The footsteps pick up once more, growing closer to the sound with each passing moment. I clamp both of my hands over my mouth to stifle my breathing.


    The kitchen floor is cold against my bare feet, and I am shaking so badly that I can hardly keep my arms still. There is a moment of silence, and I hold my breath. Maybe they will go back upstairs. Or the basement. Then I can smash the window and climb out. Book it into the woods and run for the hills until morning comes.


    I bite my lower lip.


    The footsteps enter the living room, where I had been lying on my still warm mattress only a few minutes ago. They remain so still for a moment that I think I’m beginning to imagine things. But as soon as they enter the kitchen, I shrink back as much as I can against the wall.


    They pass the table where the ATARI game system is sitting. Their footsteps slow down, right in front of the pantry door. I only know that they are there because the moonlight in the kitchen is blocked. They are barefooted like me, their muddy toes visible. They have left prints and dead leaves on the floor I spent a day cleaning up. In their left hand they are still holding my blanket. They look like they have just come from outside, which means that they know these woods far better than anyone.


    Far better than me.


    They don’t try to open the pantry door.


    A dark palm appears on the shutter, their fingers curling around the edges. I can’t scream, or move. I simply stare at the shape, and I realize that my pajama pants are now soaking wet because I pissed myself. A puddle of cold urine is slowly growing on the ground. But I don’t move. There is a strange humming noise, coming from their throat. It’s very quiet, warbled, distorted like it is underwater. And the words are something that I don’t recognize—like they’re speaking in another language.


    I try to feel around for something, anything to get my hands on in the enclosed space that I can potentially use to defend myself. But my arms are not moving. Neither are my legs.


    If that pantry door is unlocked, I’m not sure what can happen. They most likely have the key to open it, and they are leaning forward against it, their darkened fingers still cradling my blanket. I don’t want to imagine it. I know I’m not imagining this. The figure remains at the pantry. I’ve never seen anyone stand so still.


    It’s like they are a statue.


    There’s a faint tapping on the surface with their grimy fingertips. Their face is concealed in the shadows, but I all I can make out are two extremely bloody, chapped lips; covered in various scabs that are cracked all over, which look like they hurt to eat or drink with, let alone talk with. They have the key to get in here, and they know this, too. They know.


    Slowly, a faint, timid smile begins to form on those lips, before growing broader, stretching out on both sides of their darkened form.


    The singing quietly continues, lyrics passing through those scaly lips. It takes me a moment to realize that they are humming my tune, my special song for my child. My back is scrunched up against the wall. I’m on the verge of vomiting, but I can hardly make a sound. My eyelids are fluttering. My stomach churns. I can no longer breathe. I am drowning.


    There are dark spots filling my vision, and I suddenly slip into darkness.